


And the universe said you are not alone

by luciditylost



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, and biological family too, and he gets one that is literally just the fic, plus tubbo!!!!, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciditylost/pseuds/luciditylost
Summary: Four times that Tubbo realises he is loved, and one time that he knew it all along.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), They are a family your honour
Comments: 63
Kudos: 151





	1. One. You are stronger than you know.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWebernutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWebernutter/gifts), [statsvitenskap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statsvitenskap/gifts), [Spaghettoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spaghettoi/gifts), [The_Merchant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Merchant/gifts).



> Much thanks to the boxcar gang, especially for Maya, who came up with the original idea for this! To anyone else who is reading this, thank you so much for doing so! Titles are from the Minecraft End Poem.
> 
> Sleepy Bois Inc are a family, with Phil as the father, and Tubbo is the friend whos is basically always hanging out at their house. It all goes from there!

There is a piano in a corner of Phil Watson’s home. Tubbo knows this, because he has spent more nights at Phil’s house than he has at his own within the last month. He would much rather laugh at Tommy’s jokes or listen to Techno compare Tetris to famous literature or watch Wilbur come up with lyrics for a new song as he plays them than almost anything else in the world, and he’s never liked sleeping in his own room that much anyways. It’s lonely there, and it always feels colder in his own bed than it does on Phil’s living room couch.

Sometimes, Tubbo hates the piano too much to look at it. It reminds him of his own, the one in the middle of a room painted white, with a stack of pieces that he did not get to choose and a list of dates that he needs to have each prepared by sitting in front of him.

Other times, it is late at night, and even Phil is asleep so there is nobody to remind Tubbo that he belongs here--  _ here, _ in this home with family photos on the wall and junk food in the cabinet and people who are willing to listen to him talk about computers. On those nights, when he finds himself thinking that maybe it would be better for him to just go home and deal with the perpetual emptiness, the only place that Tubbo feels comfortable in is the music room.

Tonight is one of those nights.

It is almost midnight, and Tubbo is at the piano, playing as quietly as he can. All that he can remember is the echo of a piece that he never wanted to learn in the first place, but because he does not know how to play anything else he picks out its melody. He stops every few seconds, holding himself in the feeling of this instrument that is not yet familiar to him, and listens to the notes disappear into the night air.

While Tubbo is finding the next phrase, Phil enters, his footsteps slipping between the notes. He moves into the doorway almost silently. After spending so many years alone in a house built for four, he knows how to make himself a ghost in it.

Tubbo still hasn’t noticed him. Phil knocks on the doorframe twice, as gently as he can.

“Hey.”

Tubbo jumps. “Hello! Um-- did I wake you up? I’m so sorry if I did--”

“No, it’s good! I never sleep much, it’s nothing to do with you. Care if I come in?”

“Of-- of course not.”

Phil smiles and sits down next to Tubbo on the piano bench. “So. Can’t sleep?”

Tubbo finds a few more notes on the piano, avoiding Phil’s gaze. “I’m fine--”

Phil moves slightly closer to Tubbo on the bench, so that both of them are within reach of the keys. Slowly, he places one of his hands next to Tubbo’s.

“It’s okay,” Phil whispers. “Want me to talk about something else?”

Tubbo nods.

Around the two of them, the room is silent. The curtains are closed, and if it wasn’t for the weak moonlight that is scattered on the floor, it would be easy for Tubbo to convince himself that the piano and Phil are the only two things in the world.

Phil does not speak for a while. Instead, he runs his hands up and down the keyboard, his eyes closed. Whenever his hands brush against Tubbo’s, Tubbo has to resist the urge to jump.

Tubbo wonders if he should get up and leave Phil to his thoughts. He doesn’t know where else in this house he can go, but he’s pretty sure that nobody would stop him from curling up as tightly as he can in the corner of the couch.

He wouldn’t take up much space at all, that way.

Tubbo is about to stand up when Phil speaks again.

“Your technique looks pretty fuckin’ good,” he says. “Mine isn’t. I only took lessons for a year or two, and then-- well, I didn’t always feel able to play.”

_ (Somewhere in the past, a young man and a toddler sit at a piano together, the man laughing as the toddler plays with one finger. The man ruffles the toddler’s hair and smiles proudly.) _

_ (Somewhere in the past, a piano gathers dust in a room where the curtains never open. The door is tightly shut. Even during the day, it is dark.) _

Phil turns to Tubbo. “It was ten years, I think. Ten years where I didn’t do anything. Don’t worry, though. I can still remember a bit. Here--”

Phil takes Tubbo’s hand and moves it away from the keyboard.

When Tubbo leaves it on his lap, Phil pretends not to notice.

There is only one song that he knows by heart. As Phil plays it, he does not take his eyes off of Tubbo.

It is a simple melody. Halfway through, Phil begins to sing.

_ (His words echo through the past, through years upon years of love and of nothingness, and Phil has to resist the urge to tell Tubbo about every second of them.) _

The song fades out as suddenly as it started. It is almost like it had never existed. It is almost like Tubbo had always known it.

Tubbo tenses as he leans his head into Phil’s shoulder. Instead of pushing him away, though, Phil reaches for him. One of his arms is still on the keyboard, but he wraps the other around Tubbo’s waist and pulls him closer.

When Tubbo turns his head to bury it into Phil’s chest, Phil begins to run his hands through his hair.

For the first time in what feels like an entire life, Tubbo allows himself to be held up by another person. He smiles.

“It’s a lullaby,” Phil murmurs, “the thing that I just played.”

Tubbo sighs. “You must have played it for your children all the time when they were younger.”

The thought of it almost makes him happy, of a childhood filled with lullabies and sunlight. Instead of smiling, though, Tubbo has to stop himself from pulling away from Phil.

Before he can, Phil moves his hand from Tubbo’s waist to his back.

Time stops.

This time, when Phil plays the lullaby, he sings from the very beginning.

When it ends again, Phil does not speak. He listens to his own breath and to Tubbo’s.

_ (Somewhere in the past, Phil sings a lullaby for the first time three different times. The memory of each is surrounded by a golden glow, by quiet joy and something unconditional and a life that is too good to be true.) _

_ (Somewhere in the past, Phil stops singing.) _

_ (He wonders if Techno or Tommy still remember the melody. He does not have to wonder about Wilbur.) _

_ (The fourth time that Phil sings the lullaby for the first time, it glows just as much. It lights up everything.) _

Tubbo is still silent. Phil lets him take every bit of time that he needs.

When Tubbo begins to smile, ever so slightly, 

“I still take lessons every week,” Tubbo whispers. “I don’t know any songs that I want to play. My teacher picks them all for me, and sometimes my parents tell her what they want.”

“Well,” Phil says, “do you want to change some of that? I’m sorry that I can’t change it all.”

Still against his shoulder, Tubbo nods.

He does not have to lift his head to learn the song. Instead, Phil guides his hands, holding them at each note until Tubbo knows it.

Phil lifts his hands from the keyboard. Tubbo does not.

His fingers stumble more than he would like them to, but as Phil sings with him, Tubbo realises that maybe he does not have to worry.

After he has finished playing, Tubbo leaves his hands on the keyboard again. 

Neither of the two speak. When the silence fills the room this time, though, it is full of warmth. It is its own universe.

One of Tubbo’s hands stays on the piano, but the other reaches for Phil.

Phil takes it and vows never to forget the way that this trust feels.

For a few minutes, the two of them sit together and listen to the echo of a lullaby. There is nothing else in the world.

_ “I love you.” _

One of them is the first to say it. The other lets out a breath that has been held for far too long.

It does not matter which is which.

Tubbo moves his head to Phil’s chest and allows Phil to pull him completely onto his lap.

“I don’t like sleeping,” Tubbo whispers.

_ (Somewhere in the past, Tubbo stays awake for days on end. He cannot sleep, because to sleep would be a betrayal of his parents and of the list that they left on the table. He cannot sleep, because he is alone in a house that is far too large for him and he is not allowed to touch anything in it.) _

Phil wants to promise him that it will be okay, that things will get better, that some moments last longer than others and some people will be willing to stay up past midnight for him.

_ (Somewhere in the past, Phil tries to sleep. He cannot. His nightmares are, somehow, worse than his memories.) _

It is midnight, and ‘okay’ seems like nothing more than a word to either of them.

Instead, when Phi lowers his voice until it is meant only for Tubbo, he speaks the truth.

“You’re worth everything,” Phil whispers. “You’re worth the world, and you deserve the world, and if nobody else can give it to you then I will try to. And I will keep trying to, until you realise just how wonderful you are-- I’ll keep trying to, and I’ll enjoy every fucking minute of it, because I’ll be with you.”

_ (“I’ll keep trying to, until both of us can sleep again.”) _

Tubbo does not respond. When he shifts against Phil, though, Phil knows that he has heard it.

Phil holds Tubbo as his breathing steadies. The wind outside taps against the window, but it cannot reach either of them. They are with each other, and with their thoughts, and neither of them can see anything else.

Tubbo does not fall asleep easily. Even far away from the rest of the world, there are some things that cannot be chased away.

As he leans against Phil, though, Tubbo discovers that he can still fall asleep quickly, if he is warm enough.

Once he is sure that Tubbo is asleep, Phil lifts him up. He is surprisingly light-- lighter than even Tommy has been in years.

Phil smiles gently. It is time for him to end the moment, and to carry Tubbo up the stairs that are lined in pictures where even Techno is smiling. Soon, Phil will open Tommy’s door, as gently as he can, and lay Tubbo in the lower level of the bunk bed that Tommy insisted on buying long ago, before any of them had met someone who stayed over almost every night. Soon, Phil will wrap Tubbo in as many blankets as he can find and then make his way back to his own room, where he will watch television until the first thing in his mind as he falls asleep is not a nightmare.

Before any of that, though, Phil runs his hands through Tubbo’s hair once again. He leans over to the piano.

While Tubbo is still in his arms, Phil plays the melody one more time.


	2. Two. The light you seek is within you.

Tubbo should be back at his house by now. He knows this.

It is a late autumn night, and it’s not even a weekend. He has tests in two classes tomorrow, and assignments due in every other. He knows how to work until the sun comes up, but only in his bedroom, which is why he  _ needs _ to be there.

Instead, he sits on Phil’s couch, tapping his pencil against the glass coffee table in front of him as he tries to remember math formulas.

It’s been an hour and he’s only done five questions.

_ He would have done more at home. He shouldn’t have stayed. _

Phil is already in his own bed, though, and it would be rude to ask him to get up. So Tubbo stays, and he tries not to be too happy about it.

Wilbur and Tommy are upstairs, too. The only one still with him is Techno, who sits on the couch next to him writing an essay. Occasionally, their elbows brush together when neither of them are paying attention, and it takes all of the concentration that Tubbo has to keep working despite that.

Eventually, though, even Techno stands up. He had made tea for the two of them an hour ago, and Tubbo stares as he washes each of the mugs carefully.

“‘Night,” Techno says, placing them upside down in the sink to dry. “Don’t drive yourself too crazy with the workload.”

Tubbo sighs. “I’ll try.”

Techno nods. “Try’s all I can ask for.”

Before he makes his way upstairs, Techno ruffles Tubbo’s hair and gives him a smirk.

And then Tubbo is alone.

_ (He knows how to be alone, at least. He has learned how to stare at a piece of paper like it holds the secrets to the universe between its pages, after anyone else would have given up on it. That is something that he was taught long, long ago, by the slam of a door and by the way that insults can be worded like compliments.) _

The fireplace is still on, at least. It’s never on in his house, but here, Phil lights it as soon as Wilbur complains that he’s cold.

He left it on when he went to bed, too. “It’ll keep away the chill,” Phil had said. “Just be sure to turn it off when-- yes,  _ when, _ Tubbo-- you go to bed, and I don’t fuckin’ care otherwise!”

The memory of it makes Tubbo smile. Nobody around him had seemed to even be surprised by Phil’s instructions, and that makes Tubbo smile, too.

His homework does not make Tubbo smile.

He tries to think about math, but instead he cannot stop himself from making lists in his head-- first the topics that he hasn’t studied enough yet for his tests, and then his grades down to the exact percentage, and then all of the reasons that they are going to drop.

The fire is beginning to run out of wood. The cold is seeping in.

_ Math, _ Tubbo tells himself sternly, and he glares at his paper until the numbers start to blur together. He calls this a reset, even though it doesn’t feel like one, and picks up his pencil again.

He manages to do another problem. He is almost too tired to remind himself that this is barely a victory.

There are footsteps on the stairs.

Tubbo looks up, expecting it to be Techno with another sentence to add to his essay or maybe Wilbur, caught halfway between a nightmare and reality.

Instead, they see Tommy.

“Hey,” he says with a wave. “You should go to bed.”

“So should you.”

“I already did, idiot.” Tommy steps into the living room with a casual confidence. Tubbo has spent enough time with him by now to see the cracks in it.

“Doesn’t look like it, really,” Tubbo says.

Tommy groans. “You don’t understand. I was  _ asleep _ already, but then I saw the light on down here and I decided that it would be more fun to tell you what to do.”

“Oh! Well, then, you could help me with--”

“No.”

Tubbo laughs. “Well,” he says, “I can’t go to bed until I’m done with it, so I guess that I’ll just have to stay up.”

“You’re wrong about that, actually. I didn’t do my math homework tonight-- because I didn’t want to, you see-- and it’s not keeping me from fucking sleeping.”

“Something is, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, dropping onto the couch next to Tubbo. “You.”

“This isn’t a strange thing for me to do, Tommy. I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, right.”

Tubbo doesn’t know entirely how to respond to that, so he lets the conversation drop. While Tommy watches, he starts the next question over three times before he gets it right. He can feel his face get warm, and has to resist the urge to shove Tommy away.

Eventually, Tommy stands up. “This is boring,” he says. “How do you do it?”

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. I have a much better idea, actually! Hang on, wait. You stay here, okay? Work on your homework, or whatever other nerdy thing you have to do, while I go do some stuff. When I come back, you better be ready for the best surprise in the world.”

Tommy makes his way to the kitchen, where he makes no attempt to keep his surprise quiet. Tubbo lets the bangs and Tommy’s loud humming fade into the background as he works on another problem.

He has not finished it when Tommy reappears, carrying two steaming mugs.

“Fuck,” Tommy says, “should’ve told you to close your eyes. Oh, well. Close them right now!”

Tubbo does. When he hears the back door open, his breathing becomes more shallow.

He is not allowed outside at night.

He tries to listen for Tommy’s footsteps, but his ears are ringing, because he is not allowed outside at night and he does not know how to tell that to Tommy, who breaks rules while laughing about it and brags to Phil about his adventures the next day.

“Hey,” a voice says next to him, “you okay?”

It’s Tommy. Tubbo clings to that knowledge.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good! Come on! Keep your eyes closed, though-- I’ll lead you.”

Tommy takes Tubbo’s hand, gripping it tightly. Tubbo follows him closely enough that it isn’t necessary, but he does not attempt to loosen the hold, instead letting it steady him.

Suddenly, Tubbo is surrounded by cool autumn air. He can feel the wind in his hair.

Tubbo keeps pulling him, until suddenly he no longer does. Tubbo stands still for a few seconds.

And then he is  _ pushed. _ Whatever he lands on moves beneath him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking loud,” Tommy says. “It’s just a porch swing, okay? Look around.”

Tubbo opens his eyes and takes note of his new surroundings, of the swing beneath them and the pile of blankets set next to them and of Tommy's hand still in his own. The smell of apples is close enough that Tubbo’s mouth waters, and it turns out to be coming from a warm cup that Tommy places on a table beside the two of them.

Still keeping one of his hands in Tubbo’s, Tommy uses the other one to pull a blanket around both of them.

Against all odds, Tubbo is warm.

_ (Tubbo cannot remember ever being on a porch swing. He can remember a porch, one back at his house, but it does not have a swing. Instead, it has chairs with straight backs and no cushions, and it is kept locked unless his parents have guests over.) _

_ (He has also been on this porch before, Tubbo is almost certain, but he never noticed its swing. During the day, he was always too busy watching Tommy shove berries from the garden into his mouth and listening to the bees to pay attention to the porch, where the sun did not feel nearly as infinite.) _

_ (Now, though, it is night.) _

_ (Tubbo is not allowed outside at night.) _

Tubbo feels himself starting to shake again. “Are you sure that this is okay? Like, will we get in trouble if Phil--”

"Is it  _ okay _ ? Tubbo, you moron, I make this whole _ surprise _ for you and I get blankets and make you apple cider, and all you can do is ask if we're  _ breaking any rules _ ?"

“...Sorry.”

“Of course we’re not. It’s just a swing.”

“Oh.”

The two of them are silent for a few minutes. Tommy is relaxed, almost slumped over, with his hand still firmly in Tubbo’s. He watches as Tubbo closes his eyes for a few minutes, then opens them again.

Beyond the two of them, leaves fall to the ground. The moon is bright enough to show the difference in colour between them and the grass. It glows so strong that, in comparison, the stars seem to fade away.

Eventually, Tubbo shifts, moving closer to Tommy.

“Hey,” he says, “what’s apple cider?”

Tommy blinks. “What’s-- okay, I’ll ask later. Right now, it’s time for you to find out!”

He hands Tubbo one of the mugs, still warm enough to steam, and holds the other one closer to him until it begins to warm him up.

He did a good job making it, Tommy thinks. It is full of cinnamon and with just enough orange to notice.

_ (It took him a long time to learn how to make it right, and more supplies than it was probably right for him to use at the time. The first time that he tried, he put in far too much cinnamon. Wilbur spit it out and wouldn’t let him cook anything more for a month, Techno gave him a lecture, and Tommy refused to look either of them in the eye until they started to trust him again.) _

Tommy watches Tubbo gulp the cider down and smiles. When he has finished, Tommy gently pulls the mug out of his hand and places it back on the side table.

Tubbo is beaming. “It’s so good!”

“Well, duh. Why haven’t you had it before?”

Tubbo freezes. “Well, um-- dumb of me, I know-- I’m sorry--”

“Stop, Tubbo. I asked you a question, I wasn’t looking for an apology.”

“...sorry.”

“Shut up, seriously. Look, let’s do this: if you tell me why you can’t have apple cider, then I’ll-- I’ll tell you something too. Something worth it, I promise.”

Tubbo stares at him. “What will you tell me?”

"It's a secret! See, now you're  _ curious _ and you have to tell me your thing first!" Tommy laughs.

Tubbo takes a deep breath and braces himself for impact. “I just… I just can’t have apple cider, Tommy. It’s just not allowed.”

“What, like apple cider specifically? That’s a dumb rule.”

“Well, um. There’s apple cider, and chocolate, and any unhealthy food, really.” Tubbo can already tell that this is going too far, that he is saying too much, but the words are spilling out of him and he cannot stop them and he does not  _ want _ to stop them, which might be the worst part. “And then-- and then there’s touching the flowers when they’re in bloom, and jumping in leaf piles, and being outside at night, and--”

And then Tubbo is crying, and only Tommy is there to see it even though he is the last person in the world that Tubbo would want to shove all of his emotions onto. There is nothing more to be said, Tubbo knows, but he is still trying to talk through his tears.

Tubbo is suddenly very cold. They begin to shiver so much that they are sure Tommy can feel it.

"Hey, hey, hey, Tubbo? Tubbo, man, I'm sorry, you didn't have to tell me, I shouldn’t have made you, oh my God, look, here--"

Suddenly, Tommy is holding both of Tubbo’s hands instead of just one.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

Tubbo clutches to him.

Tommy pulls him closer, and now Tubbo’s tears are falling on his shirt. Tubbo wants to whisper an apology, but they cannot manage even that. Tommy, though, just piles another blanket over them both and wraps his arms around Tubbo.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Would it help if I said my thing?”

Tubbo nods, because it is the most that he can do.

“Okay,” says Tommy. “The first thing that I need to explain is that, a long time ago, there were a lot of things that I couldn’t do either. I can’t tell you that much, because it’s not all my story to tell. It’s Wilbur’s and Techno’s too-- and Phil’s, I guess-- but all you need to know is that there were so many fucking things that I couldn’t do and I hated it.”

_ (Tommy, eyes wide, watching Wilbur make breakfasts and lunches and dinners, cutting them into smaller and smaller portions. Tommy, begging Techno to not leave today, to get home before dark just once.) _

_ (The three of them, huddled together in the winter, with not enough blankets and a love that Tommy had always thought would never be tested.) _

Tommy begins to rub Tubbo’s back and drops his voice. Tubbo’s breathing begins to slow.

“I couldn’t do a lot,” Tommy murmurs, "but I could go outside. It was one of the only things that I liked to do. One night, I was outside, and I was crying, like you-- no, I probably shouldn't say that. Sorry. One night, I was crying, and Techno found me outside all alone. He hugged me and tried to get me to go inside with him, but I wouldn’t. So he told me something."

Tommy moves slightly so that, from his position on Tommy’s chest, the brightness of the moon is still under Tubbo's eyelids.

“You know what he told me, Tubbo? He told me that the night is special, because it listens to you. He was real fucking pretentious about it, too-- he quoted like five different books-- but I think that he was right. The night is special, because it’s calm, and there aren’t many people around. When you say something in the daytime, it might get looked over, but everything matters at night."

Tubbo is surprised to find that he has stopped crying. He lifts his head and looks to the stars.

The two of them continue to sit, Tubbo still clinging to Tommy's shirt, Tommy still using Tubbo's legs to hold his in place. Tubbo reaches a hand up to lay it in Tommy’s hair, and Tommy smiles down at him. Each takes their time getting used to the other’s warmth.

Together, they watch the rest of the world lay silent. The porch swing sways gently in the autumn wind. From it, Tubbo can see the garden that both of them helped create and, beyond it, the garden shed that they spent hours in over the summer.

Above them, Tubbo can see the night.

"Oh, by the way," says Tommy, "what're all the things that you can't do?"

Tubbo tenses. "Why do you want to know?"

"I just think that they'd make a good list, that's all."

Tubbo begins to talk, his voice muffled by the blankets around the two of them, but it doesn't matter because he is only speaking for Tommy. He begins to talk faster, one thing after another, taking notice of everything that he has never before let himself long for.

Tommy nods with each new item, and does not comment when Tubbo says things that make him sound like a stupid, sheltered child, even to himself.

After the list has ended, Tommy pulls himself closer to Tubbo. “Those are some awful rules,” he says. “Someday, we will break all of them. Every single fucking one.”

Tubbo smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Someday.”

When everything that can be said has been, Tommy begins to point at the stars, telling Tubbo about each constellation and the myths that inspired them. In response, Tubbo tells Tommy about the types of bees that keep the garden alive and stumbles over scientific names of wildflowers.

Tubbo is not sure if he’ll be able to want to live in anything but this moment ever again.

The world is dark, and it is infinite.

"It's beautiful," Tubbo whispers. He can feel his eyes beginning to close, and he does not resist. "It's beautiful and there's so much love here. Can we stay forever?"

"Morning is coming, you know," Tommy tells him, laughing, but Tubbo is already asleep, his chin on Tommy’s shoulder.

Tommy listens to the rhythm of Tubbo’s breath for a few minutes, waiting for a light to turn on in an upstairs window. None does. His smile is soft.

"Huh," he whispers. " _ Love _ . goodnight, Tubbo."

He is easy to carry upstairs, even while holding a pile of blankets and two empty mugs.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you enjoyed! <3 kudos and comments make my brain go brrrrrrr


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